hell's a lonely road
by Isis Lied
Summary: three times Fisk saves Wesley- and the one time he didn't.


a/n: I should be doing hw but here I am, sobbing over these two. Here's hoping we get a real backstory for them sometime next season * **crosses fingers***

* * *

[ hell's a lonely road ]

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i. Being employed to a buffoon did have its perks.

Fingers lace politely against his abdomen as he bends down, whispering in his employer's ear. He had enough of the ridiculous 'merger' talk—it was just a euphemistic way to say that the company would soon be under new employment.

"I'll be back in a moment, sir." Wesley informs, slipping out of the meeting room. He catches the steady gaze of one called Wilson Fisk—a bald man whose anger and violent nature preceded him. A shiver wracks Wesley's frame but he conceals it with a well-placed cough, reaching for the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

 _What a frightening man… almost feral in a way, isn't he?_

Out in the quiet safety of the hallway, the businessman tilts his head against the wall, tired eyes shutting for a brief moment. Blinking, he runs a hand through his hair with a groan. He had only a few moments to compose himself—he had spent the majority of the morning fighting embezzlement rumors from the press.

Though, he mused, rumors weren't particularly the correct phrase. No, his boss was as corrupt as they came. Give a little money and you can get any man to fall to his knees. Wesley was sure that he'd walk in on his employer shaking the blood-stained hands of Wilson Fisk.

What Wesley hadn't predicted, however, was how correct he would be.

Though he hadn't heard any signs of a fight, the chaos he walked in to was nightmarish. Not normally one to show much emotion, his expression drifted somewhere between disgust and awe.

Disgust because, well, the glass windows were practically covered in blood. And awe, because of the man standing calmly in the midst of his own red sea, knuckles dripping with crimson.

 _One man did all of this?_

At the sound of the door opening, Fisk had turned his head, an almost shy smile flitting across his bloodied features.

"James Wesley, was it? I apologize for my… mess. But Mr. Selvent just wouldn't listen to reason. Some people just seem doomed to violence, it seems." A pause follows, dark eyes observant and lidded.

"I-is he alive? Mr. Selvent, I mean. Unless you did all of this after getting him to sign the documents." Wesley replied, unable to stop the stuttering fear that bubbled in his throat.

A baritone chuckle resonates from Fisk's chest. "You don't have to worry. I was persuasive enough to get him to sign before too much blood stained the papers. Afterwards, it was just snipping loose ends."

"I see…"

Silence followed as the larger man took a few steps toward Wesley, blood dripping down his fingertips. Subconsciously, Wesley took a few steps back, distancing himself from the other man until his back hit the wall with a dizzying amount of force.

If Fisk noticed the other man's skittish behavior, he did not remark on it. Instead, his voice took on a softer quality, lithe for a man of such strength and vigor.

"Would you like to work for me, Mr. Wesley? I think your talents are being squandered here. You single-handedly kept this company afloat for an entire year while your employer drank his money in booze. Besides, I'd hate to see talent such as yours _die_." He emphasized his final words, making it more than clear where a refusal would land the businessman.

Dismembered in a dumpster in one of Hell's Kitchen seedy back allies.

"I don't have much of a choice, do I? You're only giving me the illusion of a choice. Very cruel, might I add." He can't help the sarcasm that grits through his teeth. Death be damned, he'd get a final word in at the very least.

An amused grin spread across Fisk's face. "I believe you've misunderstood me. This isn't some trick. I mean what I said, Mr. Wesley. The choice is yours. I will not call on you again if you refuse my offer. I'm just trying to save you—save you from wasting your life."

Absorbing the older man's words, Wesley gives a nervous glance at his watch. The meeting was to be adjoined at 3pm. He only had a few minutes to make a decision before Fisk's 'clean up' crew joined the scene.

The correct choice, however, was as clear as day.

"...So be it. Joining with you would be better than drowning with this capsized ship. I'm not the captain—I have no loyalties to speak of in regards to this company. I hope you understand, Mr. Fisk, that I am not the sort of man who just blindly follows others."

"I'm glad to hear that, actually. I think we'll get along just fine." Fisk extends his bloody hand.

A moment of hesitance before Wesley offers his own hand, giving a firm shake as his lips quirk up in a sharp grin. When he pulls away crimson is also dotting his fingertips.

* * *

ii. There is only a moment's notice—bullets fly and immediately he finds himself tackled to the ground, a heavy weight pressed against his chest.

"S-sir?" Wesley manages to breathe out as the bald man rolls away, fingers clutching at his side.

"Stay down, Wesley." Fisk commands, regaining his footing and charging towards the attackers like a seething bull.

The businessman can only watch as his employer dispatches foe after foe in quick succession. It's like some savage ballet. Though Fisk never seemed the graceful type, his movements are calculated and raw with power. Like some choreographed dance, he rushes each enemy with incredible force, skulls and brain matter splattering against the concrete floor. It is only when tiredness sets in that he resorts to weapons, fishing out a gun from the nearest corpse and shooting the final two assailants.

Dropping the gun, Fisk falls to his knees, breaths coming out in short, heavy bursts. Wesley limps to his side, bruised ribs making every movement burn with pain.

"A-are you alright?" He pauses, noting the crimson patch in his bespoke suit. "Your injury… let me call for help—"

"There's no need, Wesley. The bullet only grazed me. We don't need authorities coming into this."

"But, sir—"

"No, Wesley. That's an order." With a loud groan, Fisk rises to his feet, already in motion to the vehicle.

Lamely, Wesley follows, fingers pressing through his speed-dial. "Yes, hello. A bit of an… inconvenience has occurred. Send clean up. And when we return to the penthouse I expect there to be medical personnel. We're in-route now."

With a click, he returns the phone to his pocket.

"Sir?"

Fisk turns, a pained expression apparent on his face.

"Thank you. Truly. You saved my life."

A smile forms briefly despite the pain. "That's what friends are for, are they not? I know you'd do the same for me, if such circumstances arose."

* * *

iii. Wesley spits up blood, a dark glower twisting his features. Without his glasses, his captor appeared blurred at the edges, almost paper-like in the way he brought a tattooed hand to his throat.

"Talk. Otherwise," A knife replaces the hand which had held him in a chokehold, "I'll rip out your throat."

Despite the rising fear, Wesley keeps silent, cold steel vibrating against his Adam's apple as he coughs.

"Hah, a tough guy, huh? Wouldn't have guessed it since you look like a pansy. Bet that suit costs more than my car." The would-be-assailant leers, adding careful pressure to the blade.

Blood pours from the horizontal cut, heartbeat thrumming loudly in his ears. All he can hear is the sound of his own life-force draining away. Dizzily, as more cuts are made in his chest, knees, hands, he almost thinks he sees Fisk waiting in the shadows, dark eyes filled with hate.

"What about now? Don't make me have to cut one of your fingers off. I just wanna know about your employer—how'd he get so rich? And how is it that there's no information out on him? He's like a fucking ghost."

"I-I can't t-tell you that. U-unlike your filthy lot, I keep my promises." He struggles to say through clenched teeth, knuckles white with pain as he fights against the binds, rope tearing into his skin.

The man responds with rancor, bringing the serrated edge of the knife up above Wesley's head. "You fucker! Saying shit like that, you must really want to die!"

The businessman closes his eyes, waiting for the blade to fall.

Instead, he hears a pained gasp and a thud, senses awash with the sound of flesh against bone.

Flecks of blood splatter against his face as he opens his eyes. Fisk is on top of the man, heavy fists beating blow after blow until the face is unrecognizable, akin to some grotesque and pulsing mush.

It's almost like a dream—a relieved smile forms against Wesley's lips as he closes his eyes yet again, a sort of lethargy overtaking him. He knows he should tell Fisk what had occurred, what information he had found in his search before being attacked. But there was a warmth now, despite how cold he had once been due to the blood loss.

 _Is this what it felt like to die?_

"Wesley? Wesley, stay with me." Fisk's voice breaks through the haze, forcing his eyes open.

In one fluid motion he's being carried back to the vehicle, gingerly placed in the backseat as Fisk barks orders to Francis.

"Drive us to the nearest hospital, now!" The bald man roars, taking the seat beside Fisk's head.

A hand briefly runs through his hair as he speaks softer now. "Don't fall asleep, Wesley. Just focus on my voice. Start talking. Anything to stay awake."

The man gulps, a pained groan escaping his lips at the way it brings blood to the surface of his skin, wounds still bleeding against his throat. "I-I didn't tell him anything, sir. N-nothing, I swear. I'd never betray your trust—"

"Hush, Wesley. I know. I believe you. You've always been a better friend than I deserved." Fisk interrupts, anger blooming in his heart.

Why did the world always want to take everything good from his life? What had he done to deserve such treatment? Was he really the monster everyone said he was?

"T-that's not true. You saw my potential that day, remember? You saved me then. And you've saved me so many times afterwards. I am the one who doesn't deserve such kindness…" Wesley rambles.

The last thing he remembers before waking up in the hospital room is the feeling of Fisk wrapping his coat around him, bloody hands applying pressure to the gaping wound in his neck.

The same hands that had killed countless men, had, for the first time, been used for a gentler purpose—to save a life.

* * *

iv. It takes all of his willpower to not fall to his knees.

From the opening of the basement, it almost appeared as if the younger man was asleep. His features had softened in death; no longer did he keep his lips pressed firmly into a frown, eyes cold and distant. No longer did he hide his emotions and feelings under barbed threats or sarcastic ramblings. All his armor had been worn away, leaving only a man with heavy bags under his eyes, lines in his face much too prominent for his age due to worry and stress.

He looked peaceful—and it made the larger man absolutely sick.

Fisk has to pry his fists away from Francis, lest he end up with two dead associates. But Wesley had never been just an _associate._

"He's my friend! My friend!" Fisk yells in anger, unable to put such words in past tense, though they ring hollow all the same.

 _Was. Was my friend._

Trembling with agony, Fisk pulls up the chair, sitting beside the deceased man. One hand reaches for his clenched palm while the other tucks away a few dark locks. Wesley always made a point to look impeccable.

The thought almost brought a chuckle from his lips. But Fisk was unsure if he could ever laugh again.

Fingers reach into his coat pocket, finding Wesley's phone. Some blood had tainted the screen, but no bullets had harmed the device. His eyes flicker at the list of missed calls.

9 missed calls from a W. Fisk. 9 times he had been too late to save his friend—perhaps he had even inadvertently caused Wesley's death.

The boy would always pick up his phone, regardless of circumstance. His first phone call… could it have made him put his guard down enough for the captive to gain the upper hand?

Six gun shots was overkill; it reeked of a person unused to the weight of taking a life.

An opportunistic kill if he had ever seen one before. Teeth grind at the thought, guilt briefly washing over his countenance. He should have known. He did not deserve good things in his life. For Vanessa to survive, he had to lose someone of equal importance. That was how the world worked.

A man could never be too happy—the universe made sure of it.

Noting the next earliest phone call to be from his mother, Fisk pocketed the cellphone, gaze returning to Wesley. He stares at his face for a long time until finally deciding on pressing a gentle kiss to Wesley's forehead. His skin is frigid. He has been dead for quite some time now.

All the time he had spent pacing around Vanessa's hospital room, doing nothing, while his only friend rotted in the dark.

"I'm sorry, Wesley. Whoever did this—they will pay for their sins. I promise you that."

Fingers rub circles against his cold palm as the tears flow freely down his cheeks. With Leland and Francis gone, he could finally mourn in peace.

Oh, how lonely it was, to walk this road to Hell alone.


End file.
